


affogato al caffè

by decidingdolan



Series: theopolis (use at your own discretion) [5]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alcoholic caffeine, Angst, Banter, Coffee, Cub reporter, Drama, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Rape Mention TW, Social Media, Truth or Dare, coffee shop AU, newspaper
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1779724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's the hotshot, charming barista. She's the beautiful, quick-witted university senior. Recklessness, coffee, and alcohol are where they start. It's going to take more to keep them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. amaretto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sweet, almond-flavoured Italian liqueur. a bitter love, if you're up for some.

_“As I said before, I am a far more flawed human being than you realize.”_   
_\--Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood_

* * *

Shame.

Somewhere between the tenth (or was it eleventh, but who’s counting) shot and unbuttoning her blouse in front of him, the word burned in her mind.

Screamed, scorching and bright.

Throbbed like a scar. Like she'd actually have the courage (wimp, she scolded herself. Coward. Weak little Miss Hardy. Gullible rag doll. All wobbly knees and futile pleas. High heels scratching against the floor as he dragged her. As if he would listen.) to twist a knife into her skin and brand herself.

Shame.

Gemma—no, Camille. Camille ran into the library. Click clacks of those platforms she often wore to parties on weekends gone insane. Felicia had glanced up from the thick hardback she’d propped open on the Main Hall’s long table, a notebook (her own acronyms for words, outlines, minor doodles) on her lap, piles of research papers (ten-page devils, she called them. Fondly, of course.) framing the hardback. There were highlighters (neon yellow. She insisted on one color. Lucy could have lectured her for another twenty minutes on the power of the variety of colors on learning and remembering, and she’d still stick with her yellow.), pens, pencils, and paper clips. Her pencil case was zipped open, ransacked, the state of which was not unusual for a Saturday night, when she’s made it three-hours deep into researching and compiling information. She had her black-rimmed glasses on, hair in a thick bun, lips half frowning at the interruption.

_Five out of the twenty five pages you were supposed to get done today. Can’t afford to daydream for another five minutes, Felicia._

What is it, she asked, staring at Camille. The rumpled red dress, the airbrushed blonde hair gone astray. Heaving and ragged breaths.

Her friend sighed, shook her head.

Felicia dropped the pencil she was holding onto the notebook.

What happened, she persisted, frozen in her chair, half praying the answer flashing in her head wasn’t true. No. _Something can’t have happened to him now. Not now. Not tonight._

He’s dead, darling, Camille approached her, manicured hands squeezing her shoulders, he’s dead. Felicia’s lips went dry, heart sinking. Drowning.

Shame.

They refused to let her in when she got to the street. A police stronghold wall, cars and sirens and handcuffs on the guilty.

And he lay there, face caked in blood, unrecognizable, unmoving, lifeless. Eyes wide—that she was glad about.  
Sweet Ryan. The gentlemanly best friend. Sweet, caring, wonderful Ryan. She's so lucky, they were saying. She's so lucky.

He’d swooped in, a white knight came to life, saved her from the drunken idiot pinning her down in a locked bathroom of somebody’s house.

A punch, a kick, and he was a hero. A best friend.

Gained her trust when she’d hardly let anyone in.

Until.

She should be glad. Some asshole driver doing the dirty work for her, but it's the waste. All those lessons, those sessions. Nothing.

He's dead.

Shame.

Honey, it’s a café, not a bar, the cute barista was saying when she ordered a shot of vodka, dimples on his cheek when he smiled, voice coated with sugar, the sort of suaveness crafted to bring girls to their knees.

He had short, sandy brown hair, glasses that emphasized his blue eyes. An apron tied over his gray tee and jeans. He’s standing behind the L-shaped bar, washing cloth in his hand. She’s sitting on the stool across from him, drink in front of her.

Drop the act, she was stirring her mochachino (coffee at six pm. Life the way it was supposed to be lived.) Unless there's another barista here who's as a good a fuck as he is at mixing drinks.

He's looking at her then, lips pursed, piercing blues aimed at her, So what have you heard about me?

You give good head, she sipped the coffee (it’s gone cold, as if that mattered), you like it when girls don’t ask for your number when they leave, you’re into models—fashion design majors mostly, and you make a mean martini.

Reputation counts, don’t it, he threw down the cloth behind the counter, untied his apron, and walked over to her side, Sounds like I’ve hit the jackpot, Miss Big Mouth.

I’ve got a few friends who wouldn’t shut up about you, that’s all, she took another sip of the coffee.

He surveyed her, sat down on the stool to her left.

Bad day, huh, he mused, eyes drifting down to her legs. She’d taken to wearing her plain Jane outfit that night (the one when she didn’t bother to think of much else): white linen blouse and black, knee-length skirt.

What would you know, she retorted, crossing her legs, You’re living the good life.

Was good till you came in, he reached behind the counter to grab a bottle of scotch and a glass, pouring himself a drink, Now it’s much better.

She laughed, head thrown back, Did you use that on all the girls?

He shrugged, You seem to know me better than I do, he's tracing the rim of his glass with his finger, Only trying to cheer you up, beautiful.

She raised her glass, Cheers to that.

Never seen you in here, he said, Do you even go to ESU?

Getting my degree in a month, coffee boy, she finished her coffee, sliding her glass toward him, Watch your mouth.

Name’s Harry, he grinned, grabbing her glass and pouring in some of his scotch, Ice? She shook her head no.

I know, She countered.

So, he began.

So what? she raised an eyebrow.

You don't normally drink coffee.

Ghastly assumption to make about any college student, her eyes widened in mock surprise, hand on her chest, Guess you don't know us that well, after all.

We're the closest within walking distance, he argued, Everyone's from ESU, one way or another.

Please, you don't own the market, she took the glass from him.

Oh, but I do, he edged himself closer, What's your deal? Instant? Starbucks? Boyfriend's coffee machine?

She snorted, Freshmen girls, they come in here, giggling and fawning over you. (He rolled his eyes. A what can I do about my looks face.) Sophs and juniors they're the ones with the stories. You're great at this, you kiss like that. (He pouted.) Seniors, they step in before you close and leave around morning, ready to take exams- you're like an express caffeine shot. (He nodded.)

Surely you do realize they come in for the coffee, he gestured to the back of the counter.

I didn't, she stated, flat, direct.

_Two could play that game. (Her way, of course.)_

That's what they all say, he whistled, So what can I do you for?

Do me, she said, My, aren't you being forward.

Reading between the lines, honey, he said, Service oriented. I was trained that way.

Your training included a game of truth or dare? she asked, swirling her glass.

His hand brushed her thigh, Thought we were getting right to the point.

What's the point if not to enjoy ourselves? she’s tilting her head, eyes searching his.

You're testing my patience? he chuckled.

You're testing your luck, coffee boy. Don't be so sure.

What if I am.

Then you've already lost. You want me to start?

I'm not wearing too many layers, he was fingering the fabric of his t shirt, We could take the easy way out.

Easy's not why I came here.

And?

Fun is.

Sure, go ahead.

Truth or dare.

Dare.

Got a can of whipped cream?

Told you it's a cafe, honey. 'Course I do. He disappeared to the back of the counter and returned, handing the can in his hand to her.

Come and get it, she said, and squeezed some on her tongue.

My pleasure, he could only say.

He had his hands at her waist before he finished talking, lips crept up on hers before she knew. Pressed against hers, light, delicate. A start. She'd surmised hunger, thirst. He'd served up heat, frustration. There were shivers. Rising temperature ignited on her skin, when his tongue darted in and played with hers. He tasted of scotch—rich, burning, mixed in with a hint of coffee. He'd licked the whipped cream from her, the slightest hint of sweet in the shapeless mess, the deliberate, interminable lingering in her mouth on his part.

She's gasping when he pulled away, heart beating a low, humdrum moan. Looked at him with wide, accusing eyes.

Who else was she to blame.

Her waist felt empty where his hands had been. Blank, missing, and she cursed under her breath.

_Goddamnit, Felicia. Has it honestly been that long?_

He's smiling at her dazed eyes. She'd looked down, inspected the leather strip on her black Mary Janes, suddenly unable to meet his stare.

His eyes were solid, sharp blues when she returned to him (let it not be that long. Please let it not be that long, she's praying in her mind. These moments. These tastes. Disappearing into her mind's maze was an act she could never be held accountable for, much less to make it back in time.) She took a sip of her drink, calming, numbing alcohol spreading through her veins, and continued,

Relax, I'm giving you a head start.

Truth or dare, he started, back at his place on the stool opposite her.

Truth.

Come on, he frowned.

She shrugged, What's to lose with a stranger?

Corner of his lips turned up, Fair enough.

How far would you go with someone you've just met? He seemed to have the question ready, words rolling off his tongue with ease. He's locked his eyes on her, expectant, waiting.

Depends on the person, she said. If her hypothesis was the case, it was his turn to work at getting the answer. (Whether it's the one he's looking for or not, she couldn't guarantee.)

Me, then. The reply was immediate, and she was surprised at her own will to stuff down a well deserved chuckle.

Depends on the situation. A step at a time, coffee boy, a step at a time.

What about tonight? he pressed on, fallen into her trap. It's not as much his as it was theirs. The end was written. They were only dancing on the pages.

Tonight was hers, to begin with. Tonight was about forgetting. Putting reality on hold, baggage checking her memories for later. Tonight was about turning off the sounds. White noises. Pollution. Tuning in to her own desires. Tonight was about locking away conscience. Springing recklessness from his cell. Asking him to take over. Tonight was about doing, touching, feeling, getting, answering yes's till the word drowned in her throat. Tonight was about wanting, and tonight was about her.

Depends on how much you can please me, she downed her drink.

(Bravo, Felicia. You've outdone yourself.)

We'll see about that, he winked.  
It was disarming, the wink. Gave her a little tip, off her balanced scales. She'd smoothed a crease on her skirt. Let words circle her tongue.

Your turn, she said, Truth or Dare.

Truth.

Hey, she protested.

(Fine, rang in her head. Fine.)

Hey yourself, he quipped, My turn to be boring, his elbow on the counter, half leaning toward her.

Let's see, she mused, If I were handcuffed to a bed, what would you do to me?

Bets were off. Consequences were immaterial. She'd dropped the question. Whatever goes.

He breathed, Ah, you.

Said the word with a heavy air, as if he'd resisted letting the pronoun go. You. She couldn't guess what was in his mind, hearing those two words aloud. Emphasized. Isolated. You. What to do with her. What to do with her, she imagined him asking himself. Drummed her fingers on the counter.

Words spilled from his lips, and she found herself gasping down air.

You, he began, you. You I'd climb onto the bed to. Kiss your hands where they're handcuffed. Touch you. Trace you with my lips. Your hands to your shoulders. Cover your body with mine. Bend down to kiss the base of your neck. Maybe leave a mark. I don't know if I should. I really want to…and I would. A trace of me on you, I like that idea.

She was still, listening, silent.

Make my way up to your lips. Probably not too long, but I'd want it to last. I've only a taste of your lips, but your skin I'm curious about. I'd touch you, hands now. Those breasts. Kiss them. Suck them. Hear your voice. Feel you move, against me.

Yes, the word was on the tip of her tongue, yes.

He sucked in a breath, eyes drinking her whole, I'd slip my hand under your skirt, peel the layers off, down, and graze you. Fingers. Slip one in. Two. See how you react.

His words were steady, voice low. Not a misstep, not a pause. A constant flow.

A hand started to ball up into a fist, and she shook it loose.

Lift up your skirt. Kiss you. Taste you there till you're begging for me, till my name is the only word you're repeating from your lips, till you come because of me.

She gasped, hard, cheeks warm, flushing. Hand fisted in her skirt—body leaned toward him. When, she didn't know.  
Now a dare, he took the lead at her silence.

Huh, she blinked.

You can't pick truth twice, he pointed out, eyes sly, Tell me you know the basics.

If we are sticking to the rules, she muttered.

Which we are.

Fine.

Fine, he repeated, patient, My request is simple.

Then say it. She'd kicked off her Mary Janes, feet bare, one rubbing against his leg.

Belly shot, he answered, sliding himself closer to her on his stool.

Only wished you'd say it sooner, darling. The term of endearment was, from her lips, a drawl, lazy, lingering.

She'd unbuttoned her shirt. Let it fall to the floor when she was finished, laying herself down on the counter.

Yours, as you please, she extended a hand to him.

He accepted, getting to his feet.

She watched as he poured scotch on her navel. Licked her lips.

His eyes found hers, breaths thick on her skin. Shivers. Involuntary. Hers.

He nodded at the look in her eyes—an unspoken signal of approval, before bending his head down, pressing his lips against her navel. (Small mewl from her lips. Hips arched up to him.

That's right, her eyes were saying, That's it. Give me more.)

He slurped the scotch in one motion, kissing the skin there before he detached himself.

Your dare, she'd gotten back on her seat, wicked smile on her lips.

Strip.

He laughed, Thought we were saving the big guns for later.

She shook her head, You think?

He'd grinned in reply, For you, anything.

Peeled off his t shirt to the floor. Unzipped his jeans and kicked them down.

Well, he said, not without a grandiose gesture, Here he is.

She rolled her eyes.

Truth or dare, he asked.

Dare. I'm getting into this.

You ever watched _The Wolf of Wall Street?_

Please. Who hasn't.

The choo choo train scene.

Trying hard, aren't you.

You had it easy.

Ball was in my court. What've you got, anyway?

Chocolate or strawberry?

Chocolate. Why'd you even ask.

Options. Where would we be without choices? He’d leaned over to grab a bottle of Hershey’s syrup from behind the counter.

Nice try, she glanced up at him, I'll see how long you last.

You're not the first, I'll have you know.

She cocked an eye, I can see you're all turned off by that.

He kissed her when he stood up, hands on her shoulders as he squeezed chocolate syrup over the top of her breasts.

Keep still. Two words, his breaths brushing her ear.

It could stop. Now. Walk away or just give in. Get her shoes or get rid of her bra. Get dressed or get down to him. Get out of this place or get lost in her head.

The easiest choice was the obvious one. The scotch's been making decisions instead of her, for the last couple of shots, anyway.

Sharp intake of air when his tongue landed on her skin. Moist. She'd thrown her head back, let him taste her. He took his time, tongue mapping her skin than finishing the chocolate. Tiny nips. Kisses. A hum in her throat, a ghost of a moan. Her fingers took hold of his hair. Tugged, and the breathless panting heard was his.

His lips joined hers again once he finished. Her hand loosened its grip on him, fallen limply to her side.

He tasted of chocolate this time, a blurred mixture, saccharine and bitter, arms encircling her waist, thin frame pressed against hers.  
Truth or dare. Three words, whispered. Hoarse, too shaky than she'd planned, and there went her mind.

_That's it, Felicia, you're a goner._

Hey, I don't even know your name. His lips, treacherous red, were inches from hers, his breaths shallow, short.

You're avoiding the question. All she had to do was lean forward and fall. Into him. Arms, lips, eyes. The bridge had burned. They were teetering at the edge, afraid of words unsaid, afraid of words already taken.

Chocolate goes great with your skin. He'd leaned in now, lips at her shoulder. A kiss that short circuited nerves. Contact that caused her skin to burn.

Heat, frustration. They'd returned.

Hunger, thirst. Those were hers.

I know what you're doing. Her lips were stubborn, her mind close to flickering shut. Her hands slid onto his bare shoulders, and she knew the choice was made.

Come on, darling, Wet lips at the base of her neck, Let's not kid ourselves.

And time froze. She went limp in his arms, paralyzed.

_Let's not kid ourselves, he muttered, cornering her in her room._

_Ryan, please, we talked about this, she'd protested, hand on his chest, pushing away the form closing in on her._

_He'd ignored her, arms locking her down on the wall. She'd kicked, screamed, writhed. Help. He'd pushed down his trousers, lips nuzzling her neck._

_Fey, I've wanted you, he was saying. There were tears on her cheeks, and she'd bitten down her lips. Shook her head as if he could be persuaded to listen._

_I've always wanted you._

_She was swallowing her sobs, nose red, throat throbbing and constricted, when he hitched up her skirt. Pinned her down._

_Don't do this, she was crying, don't._

And time froze. Her world was black, and she'd blocked out the rest.

Shame.

You ok? she blinked, and he was staring at her. Concerned eyes, hand stroking her arm. Gentle, slow.

Her cheeks were wet, and she'd found it hard to breathe.  
He drew her into his arms when she fell prey to silence, palm trailing down her back, Hey, it's ok. It's ok. I'm here.

I'm right here.

Shame.

She stayed the night. (He lent her his bed in his room upstairs.) Woke up absurdly early in the morning on purpose and left a note on the counter. (A napkin, but she needed to leave. She'd outstayed her welcome with him. No other way to put it.)

_Coffee boy,_

_I'm probably going to regret this, but [her number]._

_Thanks for the bed. And the hug._

_Sorry for the tears._

_Promise I'll make it up to you, if you're still the guy I thought you were._

_F_   
_(the one with the trust issues and the red lipstick. the one who fucked with you and almost fucked you but didn't. the one with the chocolate syrup and whipped cream.)_


	2. affogato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "drowned" in Italian. ice cream and a shot of espresso. an inviting combination.

_“you do the math. you expect the trouble.”_   
_\--Richard Siken_

* * *

Chocolate syrup girl,

Last I checked, your tab (alcohol and caffeinated) is paid for. You don't owe me anything. (Not even the whipped cream.)

It's a cafe, not a hotel, obviously, so I can't imagine (and I'm guessing neither can you) charging for a night's stay.

This is where you launch into You're a Fucking Liar, Harry: Are You Running An Underground Harem? lecture.

Okay. Sorry. I shouldn't be making that kind of joke.

(Honestly? You're going to slap me for this—virtually, anyway. My cheek knows it—but I'm going to give you a one sentence answer/recap/summary for that lecture: it just sort of happened.

I don't do complicated, is what I'm saying.

There was one, then another. And some.

It's not all of them, that I'll say for myself. Rumors, rumors, rumors. Blah blah blah. Exaggeration is a friend to most, a fiend to others. You know how it goes.)

Right. Well.

Does it count as a digression if I say you feel really, really great to hold? Great as in soothing, great as in a you fit right into me sort of way, great as in I could hold you for longer, no questions asked.

Hey, I'm serious.

I didn't mind. I don't mind.

'Course there were possibilities. Things I was looking forward to doing to you (it's too late to refrain from reading this in public. You've made it this far. Sorry for the lack of warning. I'm a bit of a mess that way.) - you did keep that dragging on. The fucking foreplay.

Did it, as you so eloquently put it, fuck with my head?

I'm thinking you don't want to know the answer to that.

I've seen catharsis, honey. Triggers. Indelible, invisible scars hurting at the mention of a word. Phrases.

I haven't exactly had a pleasant past.

I've seen your eyes, and you're probably accusing me of trying to absolve myself of whatever kind of guilt stabbing me in the chest about now, and while I'm going to go on a limb (which is to say, believing me is optional on your part) and say I'm not a saint (cue eye roll), I wouldn't have done a thing differently.

What's happened to you is not where I am. Is not where I should be.

I'm here, and that's all I can say.

I'm here. Present. Against your skin, arms around you. I'm here.

I'm probably saying too much when I quote Bronte and go all, Crying has always been a sign that you're alive. I don't accept your apology for tears, sorry. I'd rather they were let out than kept in.

And what do you know, I'm hearing your voice again, carried across the room, mingling with the smell of roasted coffee beans Trina's prepped for this morning. (Do come in. The coffee's not half bad. This is perfectly legal business, and you'd agree with me saying I'm the world's ugliest mascot. Not even a costume. And look at those pointy, elfin ears. What were those girls giggling about when they order their green tea lattes, I'll never know. Joke, rinse, repeat.)

What do you know, here you are again, eyes pressing into me. Digging into my skin.

I'm saying I know. I've been there. And you'll have to live with it, just as I'm going to live with this letter.

This is grossly long, you'd say. I'd say I'm elaborating my reasons for a non-IOU, so the absurd length isn't an excuse for an actual letter, as opposed to a quick email (you started it, darling.) as much it is my excuse to talk to you.

Ha. Pages of an excuse. How'd you like that.

Now you'd say you regret this. The ten digits written in black ink on the napkin. But don't.

Even if you do, even if you choose not to come in again, even if last night was a plan to cleanse something out of you through me.

Even if.

I like a good banter. An even opponent. You're witty, beautiful (you already know that. Hell, the world knows that. And you dodged the coffee machine question, smart girl.). I'm glad it happened. That we met. I'm sorry about the way it ended.

I don't know what kind of guy you thought I was- or am- or what you possibly think of me now, 709 words in, but your call if you think you should make it up to me.

Me, I insist on getting you an Affogato the next time you come in. Extra shot of amaretto, because you should. (If it's noon, I'd still say you should.)

x

I'll save the kiss for when I see you, Felicia.

(Gotcha. I'm not the guy your friends wouldn't shut up about for nothing.)

H

PS. You partial to scones, by any chance?

PPS. The Affogato is divine, I swear. Would be a shame to miss it. On the house. You have my word. Or words.


	3. ristretto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short espresso shot. sweet, to the point. (or so he says).

_“It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn’t, and you were the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world.”_   
_\--J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye_

* * *

H,

I like the sound of the word on my tongue—Affogato.

Same with the taste of the coffee.

Maybe it's a first time, or the last. I don't know, but you were right. It is good. It is heaven. It is a thing now, I guess.

The girls were squealing when I got in, and I wondered why. You've been telling them about me, haven't you?

You promised you'd be good, coffee boy.

And you weren't when you kissed me hello—that was unnecessary, unnecessary but not unwanted. You taste different when I'm sober, or maybe that's my mind.

Had to leave because of a team meeting, not because that's all I owe you. (Affogato on the house, really. Did I do something right?)

Don't know when I'll be done for the day, but I'll take it you're not there if I see the Closed sign.

xo

You know what that means.

F

* * *

[Text: 1:31pm] C: How'd you place your coffee order- Affogato served with a kiss on the side?

[Text 1:35 pm] F: Mille. Must you?

[Text 1:37 pm] C: Don't shy from it, darling. You're famous.

[Text 1:40 pm] C: I know you weren't here at the dorm Friday night.

[Text 1:45 pm] F: Speculation gets you nowhere.

[Text 1:48 pm] F: What are you talking about?

[Text 1:55 pm] C: #AffogatoKiss

* * *

[Text 2:10 pm] H: Have you heard? We're trending.

[Text 2:15 pm] F: I'm going to Judo the shit out of you.

[Text 2:17 pm] H: Love it when you talk dirty. x

[Text 2:23 pm] F: Lose my number.

[Text 2:30 pm] H: Figured out your treat for tonight. Even Trina won't be there. It'll be just us.

[Text 2:45 pm] F: Are you bribing me with coffee?

[Text 3:00 pm] H: I was leaning more towards the us part.

[Text 3:04 pm] F: Subtle.

* * *

**Mystery Girl Revealed To Be Psychology's Felicia Hardy**

_Coffee Bean Addicts_

_Posted Wednesday April 14th, 9:08a.m._   
_Copyright Empire State University News_   
_By Emma Bouchard_   
_Thanks to Ari for the pic!_

It's hardly an unsolvable case that the black-haired Beauty the Coffee Bean hottie and owner Harry Osborn was Frenching this morning over a freshly brewed cup of Affogato was none other than ESU's own Felicia Hardy, fourth year psychology major and surprising Coffee Bean newcomer.

"She's hardly ever been in there," said Camille, her best friend, fellow Psych major, "I had to check the Instagram feed twice to make sure that it was her."

True enough, within hours of pictures being snapped by smartphones of ESU Coffee Bean regulars, the hashtag #AffogatoKiss exploded onto the Internet and was Trending in third place in ESU's local Twitter network.

"It was odd," mused Jean, a third year chemical engineer and avid Twitter user (No, I'm not giving my handle away here—she said when asked.) "Harry-" she let out a sigh at the mention of his name, shoulders drooping, "You know how he is—"

Don't we all.

The Coffee Prince (a nickname dubbed by a Korean drama aficionado) is known for stealing hearts. (Most of them ESU girls'.) Those glasses. Mesmerizing blues. That just-woke-up-in-the-morning hair. The suave voice taking your order. It’s all too easy to fall for him.

He's had a few flings, here and there, most of them surreptitious and behind closed doors, under public scrutiny, but what we've heard from The Lucky Fews are nothing short of extraordinary.

The charming barista has never made his affairs public, until this morning.

Could this girl, Felicia, be the Lucky One? A quick glance at the picture: his arm at her waist, literally sweeping her off her feet, her free hand raised a little in surprise (the other holding her Affogato), his lips locked on hers, as they’re looked on by wide-eyed Freshmen girls.

"My girlfriend was shrieking at her cell," shrugged Doug, an Arts & Business major, who has the Instagram source page opened on his phone, "Had to see what all the fuss is about."

Fuss, indeed. When someone's day gets off to an explosive, enviable start like this, we'll surely be on the lookout to see how this coffee shop romance develops.

* * *

[4:24pm caffeRistretto (Harry O.) has added you as a contact]

Additional message:  
Found you, chocolate syrup girl.]

[5:13pm ohhowsovery (Felicia H.) has accepted the request]

ohhowsovery: You.

caffeRistretto: Yes, Veronica?

ohhowsovery: This is ridiculous.

caffeRistretto: What is. Me, us, the public....or the coffee.

ohhowsovery: The public, _Jesus_. I should abstain from vodka at all costs.

caffeRistretto: The Black Russian I have in my hand doesn't quite agree with you.

ohhowsovery: Some little over eager sophomore has butchered my appetite for any future affogatos.

caffeRistretto: It's cute. A little promotion for the Bean doesn't hurt.

ohhowsovery: Don't. You've seen this coming.

caffeRistretto: I believe in consequences. And PDA. With you, of course.

ohhowsovery: With you, it's worse than dating the fucking Prince of Britain.

caffeRistretto: I'm singling out a certain word.

ohhowsovery: I don't mean what I typed, Harry. It's a figure of speech.

caffeRistretto: I meant _fucking_. You need to come over here and have some Black Russians with me. Relax. Why, what'd you think I meant?

ohhowsovery: I'm regretting that entire night.

caffeRistretto: All you have is now. And me.

caffeRistretto: Black Russian? Come on, it's Grey Goose.

ohhowsovery: Shots for me. Straight up.

caffeRistretto: You got it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for stopping by, reading, and leaving kudos, darlings! You, all of you, are everything to me <3 :)
> 
> This has been an exercise in research + rewriting, weeks of it. Had to keep it to myself for so long, but happy to finally share it with you all!


End file.
